


There's Something Strange

by AlleiraDayne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Haunting, Hunting, Magic, Poltergeist, Rituals, Violence, spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-10-20 00:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20666564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne
Summary: When Y/N Y/L/N escapes to the upper Midwest for a weekend of inspiration to begin her tenth paranormal thriller novel, she never imagined the source of that inspiration to be her own life. Between the old mansion, two peculiar men posing as antiquers, and the mysterious death of the heiress of Hill Manor one-hundred and fifty years ago, Y/N learns the truth about for more than the paranormal.





	1. The House on The Hill

**Author's Note:**

> For SPN Fluff Bingo 2019, this seven part series fills the square Author AU.

_ _

_As she stood in the reaching shadows of the towering spires and peaked eves of the mansion, a breeze too cold for August’s heat snatched the hem of her skirt and whipped it about her knees. Dark grain rested for centuries upon darker stone, both worn grey by nature’s unforgiving touch. And in the center of that ancient façade stood an entry consumed by foreboding shadows like the gaping maw of a slumbering beast._

Y/N tore the page from her notebook and tossed it aside, forgotten the instant it hit the floor. Slumped over the writing desk, she stared at a fresh page of lined paper, blank as her mind.

Well. Mostly blank. Blank but for that damned mansion. _Get away_, they had said._ Take a vacation, go someplace quiet. You just need some inspiration._

Quiet. When had quiet ever helped her write anything? It only served as a distraction as far as she was concerned. An empty space in her head for nuisance thoughts to take up residence.

Like the ridiculous mansion in which she sat.

The idea of finding inspiration on a trip wasn’t foreign to Y/N. Quite the contrary, she had written her first best seller that way. In Manhattan. Not in rural Minnesota, surrounded by nothing but forest while staying in a rundown mansion-turned-bed-and-breakfast.

Okay, maybe she exaggerated. The mansion had come highly recommended, and the surprisingly young and numerous staff ran a tight ship, too. Not a spec of dirt or dust marred any surface, a request for afternoon coffee had been served at great haste, and by four o’clock on the first night, the scrumptious aromas of dinner had wafted up the stairs to her room directly above the kitchen. And in two nights, the owners would host a large party for family and friends, as well as current guests, to celebrate the mansion's bicentennial birthday.

Far from quaint, her quarters spanned half the eastern wing of the house. A living space and a bedroom, as well as a full bath with a separate shower and tub rivaled most apartments in which she had ever lived. Ornate furniture and art filled the space, encroaching on crowded and only narrowly avoiding such a trespass.

Bronze sconces, ornate hearths surrounding massive fireplaces, and the darkest wood from floor to ceiling all amounted to one giant, fucking distraction. After weeks filled with useless attempts to start her tenth and final novel, Y/N had hoped beyond all hope that her writer’s block might meet its match there at The House on the Hill.

But after three hours, she decided to call round one in favor of writer’s block. Despite the number of times she had retied her bun, adjusted her glasses, and straightened her shirt, the start of her story eluded her. They typically did, and too often for her tastes. Y/N had in mind the perfect paranormal thriller, filled with suspense, mystery, and plenty of terror. But where to start? In the middle of the fray, leaving the reader confused, yet intrigued and desperate to learn how Natalie had ended up the owner of a haunted house? Or at the beginning, when her parents died under strange circumstances after having bought the place to flip, and the mess had fallen into her lap?

Neither met her standards. Too many stories about haunted houses started in the thick of things, right at the apex of fear, then fell flat and left the reader bored. But worse would be to start at the beginning only to drone an on endlessly about how everything came to pass on one neat, single-threaded plot.

As Y/N stood from the desk with a forceful shove of her chair, she entertained the thought of starting at the end, with Natalie responsible for a house full of vengeful spirits bound to her and her blood for eternity. That might work. But the risk? While she was a successful novelist, Y/N knew that sort of creative license to be reserved for other authors. Particularly, authors that were not women.

That might be reason enough to do it anyway.

Maybe.

The growl of her stomach interrupted her internal debate, her hunger exacerbated by the succulent scents that filled her nose. A full stomach would help. And a fresh pot of coffee. A little conversation with the other guests might relinquish her muse, too. Without any further delay, she strode to the door and rounded it for the wide hallway lined with gaudy art and overstuffed furniture.

The smells of the kitchen faded as she neared the main staircase where the two wings of the mansion met in a grand entry illuminated by a monstrous chandelier. A once heavy layer of carpet covered the near black wood of the stairs, dampening her footfalls as she descended into the foyer of the mansion. Two guests stood at the bottom of the staircase, an elderly woman in deep conversation with a young man, his dark curly brown hair and priest’s cassock destiny contrasting each other. Effervescent stories bubbled to life, she a long-time widow of a farmer and he a newly minted priest at the local chapel.

As she passed them, she overheard their debate: it might rain tomorrow.

Eavesdropping any further served her only if she were researching the small talk habits of Midwesterners. Not that the social elite of New York fared any better. Want something banal to discuss? Fall back on the weather.

But Y/N desperately needed the opposite of banal. She craved spice, juicy details and salacious rumors. The stuff that ruined presidential candidates. Or vaulted them into office. Those glimpses of private indiscretions fueled her writing. She created entire lives from little nuggets of unrest. Sure, she wrapped it up in the thin veneer of the supernatural and paranormal. But the underlying implications, the intent in her themes, remained the same.

So, when she spotted a burly middle-aged man towering in the shadowy corner near the entrance to the dining room all on his own, she gravitated to him like a moth drawn to a flame. Dirty fingernails, cracked hands, and corded muscle screamed manual labor. He, she decided, was the mansion’s groundskeeper. You didn’t get shoulders like his doing paperwork. Sunken eyes stared through a shroud of fog only he could see, and he hardly paid her any mind as Y/N strolled past into the dining room. He might serve her story well, but he would need work. A lot of work. Probably more than it was worth.

Another sigh followed her into the dining room where she found the remainder of the guests already seated at the long table that stretched the length of the room. Laden with plates, table cloths, and autumnal centerpieces, she could hardly see the heavy mahogany beneath it. But a quick peek under the layers of fabric revealed a pristine and delicately carved corner, and she cursed that anyone would think to cover such a beautiful work of art.

Though disheartened, Y/N found solace in the matching chairs, their work on display beneath another tremendous chandelier and a line of candelabras on the table. And when it came time to choose her seat, she had but to glance at the guests for single beat to decide.

At the head of the table a young woman sat in a sharp pantsuit, a recorder in her hand and held out to the woman on her left. The two could not be any different. If the recorder stood, Y/N assumed she’d barely reach five feet. The woman speaking into the recorder had to be nearly six feet tall and all muscle, with broad shoulders and defined arms.

Between the interviewer’s jet-black hair, bright red lips, and piercing blue eyes, Y/N wondered how she had landed a job as a reporter and not some sort of movie star. The blonde amazon, she determined, was an athlete of some sort. Again, nobody ended up with shoulders like hers sitting on their ass all day.

A third woman sat across from the blonde athlete and stared without reservation at them both, her big for eyes sliding between the two of them as they spoke. Y/N couldn't blame her, what with the reporter’s Hollywood style and the athlete’s power dominating the room, it was any wonder that the remaining two guests has buried themselves in their phones.

Two men sat beside each other to the left of the athlete but paid her and the reporter no mind. Directly on her left sat the shorter of the two, although neither man could be considered small. The man to his left sat an easy four inches taller than him, with long brown hair and a long pointed nose. Though they paid her no mind as she sat across from the taller of the two, their subtle, wordless communication indicated an old, deep relationship beyond that of mere guest of the bed and breakfast.

They must get the honeymoon suite all the time. Poor sods. Anyone with half a brain who took a little longer than a cursory glance would know they were brothers.

The thought vanished as she reached for her glass and the ring on her right hand clinked every so gently on the crystal. The shorter man startled so, the athlete shot him a glare that he tried to return with as much dignity and charm he could muster. On Y/N it would have worked. But the athlete turned back to her interview without another look and the man turned back to his phone.

The taller man, however, had not reacted but for the flick of his eyes—Jesus Christ, what color were they?—as they snapped to hers. He watched as she raised her glass to her lips, stared as she drank, and his phone slowly drifted to the table, the screen darkened and turned face down.

Whatever had those men on edge, it seemed serious. Civilian clothes and high anxiety suggested air marshals or rangers. Maybe even detectives. Maybe they were investigating a crime. Like a murder. Good thing there wasn't a butler. Y/N had no stomach for murder mysteries. She wrote best about the long dead. Not the recently departed.

Antiquers? They had that charm about them, disheveled, road weary, worn. Liked they lived in their car. But just as she was about to create another ridiculous history for the two men, Mr. Long and Tall reached across the table as he smiled and spoke.

“Sam.”

With her glass returned to the table, she took his hand in a full grip only to realize too late his grasp dwarfed hers. Double-down. Stay confident. A coy smile crooked her lips as she squeezed his hand and said, “Y/N.”

“That's quite the handshake,” Sam said, his own subtle smile peeking through.

“That’s quite the pickup line,” she retorted.

Sam laughed as he released her hand and averted his stare. “I'm out of practice,” he muttered as he glanced up from beneath his prominent brow.

A likely story. “Not with that look, you aren't.”

A hard backhand connected with Sam's shoulder, wiping the smile off his face as Sam turned to his right. But before the shorter man could put words to the irritation plain on his face, the cook entered the dining room and announced dinner. A stern glare earned him a threatening look from Sam, but the two settled as the cook mentioned homemade pecan pie for dessert.

“Okay, this job was officially worth it,” he muttered too loudly. Sam's angular glare flicked from Y/N to the other man, who merely shrugged. “Just sayin'. Glad there's pie. Even though I think we're jumping the gun here.”

Another flat glare from Sam sealed it; they were definitely brothers.

The remaining guests filed in one by one until the table sat full, the priest on her left and the elderly woman on her right. Mr. Shoulders took the remaining seat at the end of the table, his distant gaze still staring straight ahead and unseeing.

With all guests present, dinner commenced, and Y/N bet her life on finding the perfect start to her best novel yet.


	2. The Guests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After dinner, gossip ensues with dessert, drinks, and a little flirting.

“I miss Harold, but I’ve been getting out of the house more often,” Mrs. Harold’s Widow explained as she sipped from an after-dinner drink. “Still keeping up with the garden though. Been a good year for tomatoes, right Andrew?”

She had started up a smart conversation on gardening earlier that had dragged the groundskeeper out of his stupor. As if she had said the magic word, “garden” had breathed life into the golem.

“It has been a spectacular year for all sorts of vegetables I’ve found,” Andrew started as he too sipped from a drink. They had passed over pie in favor of Brandy to round off dinner, both far too engaged in their conversation to mince words.

Y/N had chosen both drink and pie. And of no surprise to her, the reporter, a one Natalie Murphy of the Star Tribune, had chosen a drink over pie, as had the athlete, Elizabeth Andersson of the Minnesota Lynx basketball team. While they had held their professional interview prior to dinner, Y/N discovered through subtle questioning and silent moments shared between the two of them that their friendship was much older than it first appeared.

Beside her, the priest, young Father Justin, chatted quite amicably with the young woman traveling the country who sat beside him, and snippets of their pasts slipped through their carefully guarded walls. Alysha had left home to escape the confines of a small town and a too-tightly knit family. The priest consoled her, understanding the underlying implication hidden in her words. Prior to taking on the cloth, Father Justin had studied psychology, but the calling to serve his Lord won out in the end.

Secrets bubbled beneath the shiny veneer of both their tales. Hopefully, those possibilities would fuel her creativity once she returned to her room.

If she ever made it that far.

Across from her, Sam Winchester, antiquer extraordinaire, had eyed her all through dinner, dessert, and drinks. He had passed on pie and requested another glass of wine over brandy. Dean, who she accurately surmised to be his brother, had eaten his piece of pie, and asked for a long pour of scotch, uncaring of the year or distillery.

So, when Y/N had requested a piece of pie and the same drink as Dean, that had earned her his attention. Not that she complained. Quite the opposite, she had learned rather quickly that an inebriated Dean Winchester let loose some of the best gossip. When guests around them filed out of the dining room, he leaned across the table as his eyes followed Elizabeth's backside, and whispered.

“We're not really antiquers. We're detectives.”

Sam’s lips disappeared as he scowled. “Dean, I swear to—”

“Don't. Do not say it,” Dean ordered as he stood and pointed directly at Sam’s nose. “We don't… just don't.” He stomped from the room, punctuating the finality of his statement with his exit.

And like that, Y/N found herself alone with Sam and his empty glass of wine.

His irritation fled as he realized his good fortune. “Well, that was easier than I thought it would be,” he mused as he leaned on his elbows and peered into his glass.

Y/N mirrored him, their faces inches apart as she asked, “You really want to be alone with me? Not afraid I'll put all your dirty little secrets into a book?”

She imagined he was once a shy and awkward boy. But nearing forty, he had grown comfortable over his latter two decades and found confidence in bold, daring statements. “Not if you’re gonna be one of those secrets.”

Y/N stood as she drained the last of her scotch. “I might just take you up on that offer. But tonight, I have a book to start,” she said as she tapped her temple. “Gotta get it down while it's all still so fresh in my head.”

Sam stood with her and rounded the end of the table in two long strides. At her side, he offered his elbow and inclined his head towards the grand staircase. “Would you like me to walk you back to your room?”

She slipped her hand beneath his arm into the crook of his elbow. “That would be…”

Biceps she had not anticipated rippled beneath her touch. “Y/N,” he asked as he frowned. “Are you okay?”

His massive hand clasped hers on his arm and a shiver raced down her spine. “I… yes,” she stuttered. “I'm fine. And I would appreciate the escort. But don't think you're getting any further than my door.”

“Just a walk,” Sam agreed as he raised an innocent hand and started for the stairs. “Promise.”

Y/N fell into step beside him with such ease, she looked to his feet and found he had metered his gate. “Such a gentleman,” she muttered as she lifted her head to look across the entry.

“I try,” Sam mused, but before he said anything else, his gaze followed hers.

In the entry, they spotted Dean and Elizabeth chatting amicably in the threshold of the library. A knowing look passed between Sam and Dean, but before Y/N had a chance to open her mouth, Sam lead her up the stairs and said, “It's not what you think.”

A derisive scoff snorted through her nose and she said, “Sure looks exactly like what I think.”

Sam's scoff rivaled hers as they ascended the grand staircase together. “And what about this? My escorting you to your room? What do you think this is?”

They rounded the landing and headed down the lavish hallway as Y/N said, “A friendly walk between two acquaintances. Although, by Sunday, I have a feeling that may change. Speaking of which, would you like an appropriate partner for the bicentennial party that evening? I’m currently attending alone.”

He grinned at that. “Forward. I like that,” he commented. “And, yes. I’d love to. Gives me a reason to be there and a chance to question more people.”

“Maybe you could take the night off?” Y/N asked.

He tried to smile. Bless his fucking good looks, he hid his trepidation well enough for the average onlooker. But Y/N was everything but the average people-watcher. She understood headspace, internal conflict. She understood the confounding ways in which people upheaved the lives of those around them. Despite the warmth and reassurance in his eyes, a struggle marred their beauty. He desperately wanted to tell her something, everything, but he held his tongue. They walked in silence the remaining feet to her door where Sam parted from her, giving her plenty of space to breathe.

“Thank—”

The words had barely touched her lips when Sam leaned in to kiss her cheek. He cupped her jaw ever so gently as his lips pressed to her skin just before her ear. He lingered there in his tender kiss, too innocent to mean anything more than that. When he parted from her, he said, “Stay safe tonight. Maybe just… stay in your room. Don't touch anything that's not yours unless you absolutely have to.”

Y/N hesitated as he withdrew and turned on his heel. To his back, she asked, “What does that even mean? What kind of detective are you?”

Sam turned over his shoulder, his strained moral compass etching deep lines into his furrowed brow.

“The worst sort,” he started as he frowned. “The ones they call when they have no more leads. Get some rest. You'll write better after you've slept. Good night, Y/N.”

With that, he disappeared down the hall, past the grand staircase, and around the far corner. Alone with her thoughts, she remained in her doorway as her mind spun like a top. How was she supposed to write a book in the middle of a serious investigation?

Indeterminate seconds passed before Y/N considered Sam's words, then turned into her room, and headed straight for bed. He had been right. A good night's sleep would clear her mind, organize the spiraling details, and by the morning, all would be right again.


	3. The Inspiration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y/N wanders the mansion after a sleepless night.

All was decidedly not well again.

Far from it, the moment Y/N had fallen asleep, everything had gone terribly wrong. Nightmare after nightmare kept any rest from her. Worse was waking up unable to recall any of those dreams. If only she has managed to hold on to one of them, her book would write itself.

Instead, she ate breakfast as she stared at the blank page in her notebook lying open on her desk. The longer she stared, the fewer coherent thoughts formed. And the longer she struggled against that impenetrable barrier, the more she returned to the single constant figure in her mind, with his long hair, broad shoulders, and killer smile.

_Fuck._

The notebook snapped shut as she flicked the cover, then it thumped into the draw of the desk where she shoved it. A large bite consumed the last of her toast as she stood from her desk, strode to her door, and headed down the hallway.

If the mansion had managed to inspire her earlier, maybe it could do so again. The heavily furnished hallway to her right loomed strangely empty despite its copious décor. The end of her eastern wing of the house lay that way, so instead, she turned to her left and headed for the main staircase.

Something about the house had gripped her imagination upon arrival yesterday. That much had been evident the moment she had attempted to start her novel that afternoon. And while the people had interested her at dinner, only one of them continued to permeate the cloudy suffuse that comprised her rambling thoughts: Sam Winchester.

Instead of fighting her instincts, she submitted to her wandering mind and followed her feet. Through various hallways she traipsed, no clear path determined, and her thoughts trailed in tow. Off its leash, her subconscious found its way back to the events of the previous night. Dinner, while pleasant, had served up little besides food. Her educated guesses as to the pasts of the other guests had all been spot-on. Even Sam and Dean’s antiquer disguise had been a narrow miss. That had been their intent, after all.

But what had surprised her was Sam's warning on the heels of his apparent admiration. As she strolled through another gaudy corridor of the mansion, her fingers itched, suddenly eager to touch. Why the warning? With five other guests, how would any detective single out her fingerprints? And for what crime?

Y/N found herself on a sunny patio after several minutes of traipsing. Golden rays of warm sunlight angled across a wrought iron table painted white to match the pale stone upon which it stood. Myriad of planters and pots bearing lush autumnal flowers revealed the source of the previous night’s centerpiece at dinner. And in the far corner stood a tall sculpture of a robed woman bearing a pot from which water flowed.

Detectives. The worst kind, Sam had said. While he had initially seemed irritated by Dean's drunken admission, Sam had not evaded her when she had prodded further. Homicide then? Special Victims? Cold case?

A derisive snort echoed off the glass of the patio walls as Y/N turned on her heel and stomped from the room. How had he managed to distract her so? Sure, he was easy on the eyes. But a romance novelist she was not. Perish the thought, she had never entertained the idea of writing such a book. She wouldn't even know where to start.

Not that she knew where to start yet another paranormal thriller either.

As she traced her steps back through the mansion, a gnawing worry crawled up her spine and settled at the base of her head, fine hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. His warning, while subtle enough, set off all sorts of alarms. She could use that. It may not be a bad place to start. Foreboding warnings typically hooked readers. The curiosity to see how it all played out motivated the human mind like little else. The possibility of danger looming around every corner thrilled. But that road, that winding wandering path with its ominous tone and obfuscated truth demanded the reader’s attention.

If Sam's warning started the story, then what would end it? Don't touch anything. What if a protagonist did touch something? The final piece to their puzzle. It needed work. But at the very least, it was the start to and possibly the plot of a proper story.

A familiar baritone dragged her up from the depths of her thoughts, his curse permeating the fog. Y/N found herself outside of the library, two large dark oak doors framing the wide entrance. She leaned over the threshold with a careful look to either side, then entered when she found it empty but for copious books in a vast array of shelves.

She heard it again, another curse hissed under his breath. A part of her wondered what anger might look like on his too pretty face. Probably no less attractive. Maybe even more so. Something about that thought, about the library and finding him there, broke a fine sheen of sweat out across the back of her neck, and so when she rounded the last set of shelves baring the weight of old writing supplies to find Sam sitting at a table laden with books, she hesitated.

That single beat of uncertainty allowed Sam the time he needed to drag his eyes from his book and up her entire form, drinking her in from heeled feet to coiffed hair. That look, the wide-eyed gaze and gaping lips sucked the breath right from her lungs. Christ, how had anyone ever survived his stare? Or that squirm in his seat as he openly ogled her? How she had ever resisted the urge to shove his books aside, pin him to the table, and ride him until she passed out, she’d never know.

A thick swallow preceded his greeting. “Y/N,” he breathed. “Sleep well?”

Ruined. All her plans for the weekend had been ruined by that one little question. It was then that she gave up on writing about her beloved protagonist inheriting a haunted house. Darling Natalie would instead be meeting Sam Winchester in said house and together they would solve a mystery while they fell in love.

Romance novel stigma be damned.

“I ah… yeah, I did,” she stammered. “Slept alright. Do you… mind?” she asked as she pointed at the table.

Sam glanced at his books, then shut several as he gathered them up and placed them on the chair to his left. “Please,” he added as he motioned to the chair in front of him.

Measured steps bared her to the chair where she sat, her eyes never leaving his. “How’s your… research? Investigation? What are you doing?”

Either Sam played everything close to the chest, or his detective’s nature forced him to behave that way. He slid the open book in his hands to the side, just far enough where Y/N couldn’t make out the text. “Investigation. And it’s… slow. But we’re making progress.”

“Where’s Dean?”

He smirked at that. “I could give you his number if you’re interested.”

“Only if I get yours, too,” she retorted. “You know. In case I find anything.”

His chair slid closer with a rough pull at the seat as Sam leaned near her, one forearm propped on his thigh. “I thought you said you were writing a novel?”

As much as she wanted to bite back, Y/N held her tongue. “I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m not looking for things to write about.”

“Find anything interesting so far?” he asked with a coy smile.

“Maybe,” she said as she crossed her legs and dropped her heel to dangle from her toe. “Plenty of inspiration. All those fascinating people at dinner gave me plenty to work with.”

His eyes snapped to her bobbing foot, and before she could move, he pointed and asked, “Would you… do you wear heels all the time?”

Strangely attractive men in stranger mansions investigating murders and offering foot massages. That had to make it into the book somehow. She slipped her shoe from her toe and it thumped to the floor. Deft fingers enveloped her foot as Sam set it on his thigh and rolled his thumbs through the knots in her sole.

“I usually wear heels, yes,” she replied.

“That’s pretty rough on your feet,” he started, “compromises bone structure. Invites fractures.”

She laughed at that. “And women are the weaker sex.”

“Men that don’t wear heels are the weaker sex,” Sam stated. “I could never wear shoes like that. Not in my line of work.”

There. A crack in the foundation. “Have you chased many monsters, Sam?”

His thumbs faltered as his mouth gaped. “Who said I chase monsters?”

That had not been the reaction she expected. “You’re a detective, right? Cold cases? The guys they call when nobody else can figure it out?” She flexed her foot when he continued to stare. “Sam?”

He shook his head as though confused. “Uh yeah, sorry. But no, I haven't chased many…” he paused with an averted glance, “… many criminals. You sound like you know a bit about investigations. What sort of books do you write?”

She ignored his casual shift in topics. “Paranormal thrillers.”

His hands froze as all the color drained from his face. “What?”

“You know. Like haunted houses,” she started as she casually gestured. “Vengeful spirits, cursed objects, demons, angels, religion, the occult. All of it,” she rattled. “I’ve got nine books on the market and I started the tenth this morning. For the most part. I think I’ve got plenty of inspiration with this house and the guests to come up with some sort of plot.”

She had rattled on so intently that Y/N missed his gaping mouth and green complexion. He remained that way, still as stone and staring until she slipped her foot from his hands. “I… think I should leave you to your research.”

With her foot returned to her shoe, Y/N stood and turned for the door, but only took half a step before the warmth of Sam’s massive hand slipped into her palm. He hadn’t grabbed her, hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t even stood. When she turned over her shoulder, she found him seated and gazing up at her as if seeing her for the first time all over again.

“Help me?”

Her eyes snapped back to the table where she found his book shut. In the dark leather of the cover, gold inlay emblazoned the titled across the top in a curling script.

_The Haunting of Hill Manor: A History._

“You’re not a detective.”

Sam shook his head but said nothing as her eyes flicked from the book to him and back.

“And this is Hill Manor.”

Sam nodded.

“And it’s haunted.”

He scowled as he glanced at the book. “The simplest answer is yes.”

Did he expect her to take him seriously? She smiled a crooked smirk as she asked, “So, does that make you Egon in this operation?”

His laughter burst from his lips in a rush of air as Sam clutched his stomach and stood. “Only if that makes Dean Dr. Venkmen.”

Y/N neared him, leaving little space between them. “He seems like the type,” she started. “But you don’t seem as… oblivious as Egon.”

“If you ask me to fix your computer, I'm gonna spend a little extra time under your desk,” he teased.

“I expected no less,” she said.

“But only if you agree to help me,” he added.

He wasn't joking. His tone, his intense hazel stare, his towering frame did all the dirty work his courtesies avoided. “It's all real, then? Ghosts, curses, dark magic?” she asked.

“That's just the tip of the iceberg,” Sam started. “I wouldn't ask for a civilian’s help if we weren't desperate, but if anyone finds this thing we're looking for before we do…”

Y/N considered herself an expert on expressions and emotions. Describing both required a deft hand and intimate knowledge of the human psyche. Though she had described the sorrow in another’s eyes time and time again, she had never seen such pain first-hand. Not quite like how Sam harbored guilt and despair. That look alone told her more than anything he might ever say to her; he had seen things he would never forget, had experienced traumas that had broken him over and over. Those eyes and their desperation said more than she ever could in any of her books.

“I'll help you, Sam,” she started. “If it means we have a chance to save these people, and I don't ever have to see that look on your face ever again, I'll help you for the rest of my life.”

A familiar, yet long-forgotten warmth blossomed deep in her center and spread like wildfire through her entire body as Sam hauled her into him and enveloped her in his massive arms. Her lips found his in her haste to soothe her own sorrow, and at first, he hesitated. But then the smooth heat of his hand cupped her jaw, fingers delving into her hair and Y/N melted into him as he returned her kiss.

“Hey!”

As though struck, Sam tore from her and leaped back a step. Y/N whipped about and found the source of their interruption at the corner of a bookshelf where Dean loomed out of the shadows. Heavy boots thumped across the hardwood floor as he strode up to them both, and then he growled, “Find anything yet?”

Sam regarded Y/N before stuttering his response. “I might have a lead… from this.” He grabbed the history text from the table and handed it to Dean.

When he took it from Sam, Dean glared at Y/N, his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. When she returned his glare, she planted her feet and folded her arms across her chest. No, there would be no scaring her off. Not with that pitiful excuse for intimidation.

“Not a civilian?” he asked her.

She looked at her watch. “As of five minutes ago, no.”

“Great,” Dean spat as he flipped his hand at Sam. “What were you—”

“She writes paranormal thrillers,” he interrupted. “She might be able to help. We need all the help we can get.”

Dean looked from Sam to her, then back to Sam. “Does she—”

“Iron, salt, and cleansing rituals for your everyday spirits that are stuck in between,” she interjected. “Might need a little Latin to force out a vengeful spirit. That’s what you’re dealing with here, right? A haunted mansion?”

Dean opened the book to Sam’s marker and scanned the page. “Not really.”

Y/N shook her head as she asked, “What do you mean? The house is either haunted or it’s not.”

He shoved the book into her hands and pointed at an artist's portrait of a woman at a writing table holding a pen to a piece of parchment.

“It’s not haunted yet,” Dean started, “but if we don’t figure out what item that woman attached herself to before she shows up, someone else will find it, and everyone in this fucking house is gonna die.”

Y/N took the book from him and stared as Dean turned to walk away. Sam remained by her side as he shuffled a step closer and placed a gentle hand on the small of her back.

The portrait was that of a woman in her thirties sitting at an ornately carved writing desk. She held a distinctly detailed fountain pen in her right hand, and a line of her neat script curled along the top of the parchment.

But that mattered least of all. The writing desk at which the woman sat stood beside a window in an all too familiar room.

“Oh fuck.”

Dean’s boots thudded to a halt. As he turned around, Sam leaned over her shoulder for a closer look at the page as he asked, “What is it?”

She pointed at the window, its gleaming rays of sunshine angled across the desk, and spoke.

“That’s my room.”


	4. The Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt begins!

The door creaked on its worn hinges as Dean crossed the threshold into her room. Over his shoulder he brandished an iron fireplace poker like a baseball bat. “Alright, what have you touched in here so far?”

From behind Sam, Y/N shoved her way into her room and strode past Dean. His feeble protest sounded more like a bruised ego than an actual complaint, and so she ignored it. “Everything,” she declared as she gestured to encompass her room. “I've touched everything in this room. If you can see it, I've touched it. It's kind of hard not to.”

Sam swallowed hard as he prepared to speak. “I warned you. Last night. Why didn't you listen?”

“Yeah, like that basketball player and her reporter friend,” Dean said. “They were smart and got the hell out when I told them to.”

Wait. Sam had been right? “You… weren't trying to fold the basketball player?”

Dean turned to Sam with a flat look. “Fold? Did you tell her to say that?”

“Would you have preferred I use ‘fuck’ instead? Bang? Nail? Drill? Take your pick,” Y/N snipped. “I've got more.”

Dean stared at her for a moment before turning back to Sam. “I hate you and I'm jealous of you, but I'm damn proud of you, Sammy. That's the kinda girl you should marry.”

“Shut up,” Sam hissed. “We need to find this… thing immediately. It might not even be here. Whatever it is,” he added as he looked the room once over.

Y/N looked as well but didn't have a single clue for what it was for which she searched. “Sam, who was that woman in that book? And why do you think her spirit is still attached to this place?”

Sam withdrew the book from under his arm and opened the it to read aloud. “Y/N Hillstead…” he paused as he looked at Dean who in turn looked at her, “of Hill Manor, writing her twentieth novel at her scrivener’s desk in her room.”

Y/N nodded as she frowned. “Okay, I'm just gonna ignore the fact that we have the same first name and we're both authors. Why do you think her spirit is here?”

Sam flipped a few pages ahead as Dean prodded at various pieces of furniture with the iron poker. “Y/N died within days of publishing the novel she was writing in her portrait. Her cause of death was unknown, her body unmarred and in top physical health for the time.”

“So, she had an aneurysm and a 19th century doctor couldn’t figure that out,” Y/N said as she picked at the enameled corner the writing desk. At the edge of her vision she saw Dean squint as his hackles bared his teeth. “There has to be more to this story if you’re both convinced her spirit is here.”

Sam snapped the book shut and his flat stare bore into hers. “What this book omits, either intentionally or otherwise, is the fact that Ms. Hillstead's body was found in the mansion's cemetery lying on her back right where her future grave would be.”

Okay. That was definitely suspicious. “I still feel like there's more missing,” she stated.

“Would you just tell her the whole story?” Dean growled as he slumped into a chair, only to leap out of it after a beat.

Sam rolled his eyes as he scoffed and shook his head at Dean. When Sam turned back to her, he explained. “Ms. Hillstead's body had been found posed. At least that's what other sources say. Given the items found on her person, we suspect she had lain that way on her own.”

He neared the writing desk as his words slowed. A glance between the book and the desk served him one final check before he said, “she had all the ritual components for creating a phylactery.”

Y/N slumped onto her bed. Christ. Real magic. Subconsciously, her fingers tapped her chin as she spoke. “You’re trying to find the phylactery. Before anyone else does.”

Dean grunted his agreement. “Ms. Hillstead was a witch in every sense of the word. A powerful one, too.”

A witch? A real, honest-to-God witch? Y/N wondered what other fairytales might be true. A shake of her head cleared her thoughts, and instead she asked, “How do you know she was a witch?”

“We uh… have contacts,” Sam stuttered.

“You know a witch?!”

Dean waved her off. “She’s been a pain in our ass for the better part of a decade now. Don’t make it sound cool.”

“I would love to meet her,” Y/N started, “I bet she has amazing stories.”

“Can we focus?” Sam asked as he continued to stare at the writing table. “Whatever this phylactery is, we need to find it immediately.”

Y/N stood as Dean inched his way to the door. “Wait a minute,” she demanded. Dean froze at the door, his hand an inch shy of the handle. “Is Y/N Hillstead actually dead?”

Sam and Dean traded a look. “We’re not sure,” Sam started. “Either way, we find her phylactery and get it to the right people, they can handle it. Ideally, they could eliminate that part of her soul and find out where the rest of her is.”

“Rest… of her?” Y/N asked.

Dean bristled at that. “We dug up her grave last night hoping to burn her corpse,” he said.

“With salt, right? To force her spirit to move on.” Y/N added.

He visibility relaxed at that, a small smile quirking his lips. He regarded Sam as he agreed. “Yeah. But her coffin was empty. So, she either isn’t dead, or, if she is, something else was done with her body. We think she’s not dead. She’s a lich and split her soul in two, and put one half in a phylactery. She could be a baelnorn, but that’s highly un—”

Sam backhanded his shoulder and Dean stopped short with a clipped tongue as Y/N paced the width of her room, deep in thought. A thousand questions running through her mind, rabbit hole after rabbit hole spawning more and more questions. But given their convictions, it all boiled down to one issue. “How do you destroy a phylactery?”

Dean rolled his eyes as his chin dropped to his chest. Sam, all too proud, withdrew a decorative vial from his jean pocket. Golden amber liquid glimmered in the yellow lamplight as he spun it between his fingers. She neared him as her eyes narrowed to examine the tiny bottle of crystal-clear glass. Stoppered by a cork in golden metal neck, the liquid swirled in undulating circles far too much for Sam’s steady hand. Inches away, a sudden flash of a violent shade of green startled Y/N so, she jumped back a step. “What the fuck is that?”

“Venom,” Sam said as he returned it to his pocket. “From a basilisk.”

Basilisks, too? As Y/N’s mind raced, it dawned on her. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she scoffed.

“We’re not,” Dean groaned. “It’s so damn ridiculous. But it works.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Alright, fine. But we still have no clue where this phylactery is, or what it is. It might not even be in this house.”

Sam glanced at her writing desk once more. “We have reason to believe it is.”

“Sam and I were up most of the night doing research after we found her coffin empty,” Dean started as he caught Sam’s look. He hefted the iron poker in his fist as he neared the desk. “The things on Y/N Hillstead’s body included several possible phylacteries. At least, there was a list of items found on her body not necessary for the ritual. We’re assuming she planned to use one of them.”

A slow step in complete synchronization neared the brothers to the desk. “One of those items was a small journal,” Sam started.

“A diamond bracelet her husband had given her,” Dean added as they continued to close in on the writing desk.

“A scroll of parchment with the end of her last novel written on it,” Sam added, eyes still glued to the writing desk.

With each of their steps, Y/N backed further into her room until the dresser met the small of her back. Dean reached the desk first and hooked into the drawer with the poker. Its contents revealed, Dean regarded Sam out of the corner of his eye, then reached in with his bare hands.

“Wait!”

Too late, Y/N's exclamation echoed through her room unheard. Dean withdrew her leather notebook, its modern binding far too obvious among the other items in the drawn.

He discarded it on the bed before returning to the drawer. “The last item was a pen.”

“Like the one in her portrait?”

Sam withdrew a thin purple cloth from his back pocket and unfurled it with a snap of his wrist. A thick swallow stuck in her throat, and the room spun as adrenaline coursed through her veins. With rapt attention, Y/N stared as he reached into the desk, shuffled old paper aside, then froze.

Dean backed away a startled step before recovering with the iron poker bared. “Be careful.”

Y/N resisted the urge to laugh, Sam's flat glare and Dean's healthy fear of the unknown humorous in their own ways. “It's just a pen.”

“We don't know that yet,” Dean argued.

“He has a point,” Sam agreed as he searched the room, then found her empty notebook on her bed. “May I?” When Y/N nodded, he snatched it up and flipped it open to the first page and his brow furrowed. “I thought you said you started writing last night?”

“I… didn’t,” she stuttered. “There was just… too much going on. The mansion, the people. They were all…”

“Distracting?”

Sam’s bright stare locked with hers, and for a moment, the world around them ceased to exist. Dean faded to the blurry edges of her subconscious, as did the pen that Sam held. Empathy poured from him in waves, crashing over her and pulling her under. Damn his perception. Damn his emotional intelligence, too. And damn his enthralling gaze.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, will you two get a room?”

Reality returned in a rush when Dean ripped the pen and cloth from Sam’s hand and scribbled on the page of her open notebook. Y/N gasped despite not knowing what should or even could happen. And Sam nearly screamed as he bobbled the notebook into Dean's arms, where he fumbled it to the floor.

Still as stone, they froze as though that might protect them. Several seconds ticked by on the large mantle clock before Y/N opened her eyes that she had shut in a fit of terror only to find the notebook laying on the floor, unmarked by the pen.

“Piece of junk,” Dean spat as he shoved the cap on it. He tossed it back into the drawer as he handed Sam his cloth, then leaned down for the notebook and handed it back to Y/N. “Thanks. We’ll keep looking.”

“I could help,” she offered as she set her notebook on the desk.

Sam handed her the thin square of purple fabric as he said, “Use that. It’s… it has a Hoodoo barrier on it. Kinda like a… “

Dean flourished his from his pocket and grinned. “A magic condom.”

She almost felt bad for Sam. Almost. As she took the fabric from him, she looked to Dean and said, “Magic condom, hm? Does it make you look bigger when you wear it, Dean?”

The ridiculous grin on Dean's face disappeared without a trace. He looked to the door, then turned and strode out to the hallway, Sam’s cackling laughter following him as he, too, turned for the door.

“Sam.”

He stopped in the doorway, a smile so bright on his face despite the looming danger. “Y/N?”

“What should I do?”

Damn the quake in her voice. She only needed a straight answer from Sam. Not consoling or, worse, pity.

“I'll catch up to you,” he said into the hallway.

“Sure,” she heard Dean say. His heavy boots thumped down the hallway as he said, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Y/N!”

She laughed despite Sam’s embarrassed blush. When Sam closed her door and turned back to her, she said, “He means well.”

“Yeah, he’s meant well for the better part of twenty-five years,” he said.

She sat on her bed and Sam followed, sitting so close the heat of his presence consumed her in every way possible. “Is that how long you two have been at… whatever this is?” she asked as she gestured to her room.

“Hunting.”

Of course. “Hunting,” she repeated.

“And yes. Dean's been hunting longer. My dad taught us,” he paused as his eyes glazed over, staring off into the middle distance as though reliving too many memories at once.

“Sam?” Her hand found his without thought. “Earth to Sam?”

He blinked at last, and his fingers tightened around hers when he looked to her. “Sorry. It's… a long story. One I don't think I have time to tell. Maybe I could write a book about it all someday. Although, I don't think there's enough ink in the entire world to print that monstrosity.”

The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as gooseflesh broke out along her arms. “What did you just say?”

Sam regarded his feet a moment before responding. “I should write a book about hunting. For hunters. You know, nothing I could really publish given that—”

“No, after that,” she urged as she stood.

Sam followed, his hand still held in hers. “That there isn't enough ink in the whole world to print that book.”

“Ink,” she muttered as she turned back to the writing desk. The drawer sat open a half inch and bright moonlight from the window glinted off something inside it.

“Yeah, ink,” Sam repeated. “What about it?”

“I… I'm not sure,” she sighed. Something about the pen and the mention of ink had snagged a recent memory. But far too often the last several weeks, her more intriguing thoughts fled at the first sign of scrutiny. “I thought I had an idea but, it's gone. Feels a lot like my writing these days.”

The warmth of his hands enveloped her shoulders as Sam squared her to face him. “You'll get out of this funk,” he said, “you've got a lot going on right now, especially with this bombshell of a truth dropping into your lap.”

“I know,” she groaned, “I'm just… impatient. And still so distracted.”

The second those words left her mouth she wished she could take them back. Sam parted from her with a sudden nervous shake as he said, “I'm sorry, I should go. Let you get back to work.”

Had dinner never happened? What of their walk? And the library earlier that afternoon? “I still want to help. Do you have to go?”

He checked the door over his shoulder. “I should. We really need to find this phylactery.”

The sinking sensation in her chest chilled her to her toes. “I… I understand. I'll keep looking here,” she said.

At the door, Sam paused and held up another purple cloth. “Don’t forget to use the one I gave you. And Y/N?”

“Yeah, Sam?”

“After we finish this, we’ll talk, okay?” he said with a small smile. “I promise. You deserve my complete attention and I want to give that to you when people's lives aren't at stake.”

A promise. Better than nothing. “Thanks, Sam.”

He disappeared through the door, its sharp clasp clicking against the wood as it shut behind him. For a long moment, Y/N stood in the center of her room, unsure of what to do for the first time in so many years. Though shocked, she found a sense of comfort in learning the truth, that her novels were not far from fact. Not in the least. If anything, her work demanded a review by the Winchesters. She wondered what her editor would think if she republished any of her books with corrections based on Sam and Dean’s feedback.

Shit. Too many distractions. She had intended to give Sam her phone number in case she found anything. If she moved fast enough, she might yet catch him in the hallway. From the writing desk, she retrieved her notebook. The cover flipped aside with a flick of her wrist, but when she went for her pen in the binding, it wasn’t there. The drawer of the desk came up empty but for the old fountain pen Dean and Sam had found and discarded.

The black glazed finish—wood or stone, she was unsure—glimmered in the lamplight. Thin, faint veins of gold and green shined as she twirled it between her fingers.

“Ink.”

If Y/N Hillstead had written twenty novels with that pen, maybe Y/N could tap into that well of inspiration.

All she needed was some ink.

Her room proved fruitless as she turned it over, using the Hoodoo cloth in most cases to touch anything remotely suspicious. Not a single inkwell surfaced in any of the drawers, dressers, or cabinets that lined her over-furnished quarters. The distinct lack of an inkwell in that room, the room in which Y/N Hillstead had supposedly written her novels, struck her odd. But that faint memory, newly formed earlier that afternoon, bubbled to the surface once more and she surrendered to it completely.

Corded muscle pressed against her entire body, enveloped in his suffocating embrace. How soft his lips on hers, softer than sin as they so gently teased them apart with his tongue and the faint taste of icy spearmint gum filled her mouth again. Gun oil and leather overwhelmed her nose as she breathed in to ease the relentless onslaught of arousal pooling between her thighs. Her bedroom spun as the memory unfolded and she relived it, his hands slipping to the small of her back, smoothing over the curve of her ass, and grasping, nearly lifting her from her feet.

Had Dean not interrupted them, she knew without a doubt Sam would have taken her on that very table in the library. And she would have so willingly wrapped her legs around his hips and let him fuck her cross-eyed.

But in that last moment before the memory faded at Dean’s barking interjection, an image flashed in her mind’s eye and Y/N saw it.

Behind Sam, an inkwell sat on a shelf all by itself. And beside it on the same base stood an identical pen to the one she held, standing tall in its holder.

Her eyes snapped open as she slapped her hand on the writing desk to catch her listing body. When the room stopped spinning and her breathing steadied, Y/N set her notebook and the pen on her bed as her plans took shape. She needed a change of clothes. As Sam had mentioned earlier that afternoon, running in heels begged for a broken ankle.

While she knew Sam would be well on his way by the time she changed into her jeans, t-shirt, jacket, and Chucks, she still wanted to give the pen a shot. Her superstitions about inspiration, muses, and motivation demanded she at least try it. So, she gathered up her things, stuffed them into her messenger bag, and headed for the library.

On her way, she expected to run into other guests, if only one. But no one interrupted her quick stride, not a single soul in sight from the hallway, down the stairs, and into the halls of study in the North wing of the house. Given the hour, she expected to see folks returning from dinner but when she had passed the dining room at the bottom of the stairs, darkness oozed from the doorway.

She darted in and head for the kitchen door on a whim. If she had learned anything from all her years of research, she needed some sort of defense. In the kitchen, the overhead lights flickered to life when she flipped the switch. Y/N scanned the countertops, then, finding them bare, started in on the cupboards. The pantry proved fruitful; a large canister of salt sat on a bottom shelf and she tossed it into her bag.

On her way out, her eye caught a gleaming object hanging on the wall near the door. A small chef’s hand-torch sat in a mount and she snatched it up to toss it into her bag as she strode from the kitchen. Through the dining room, she returned to the dark hallway and headed for the library.

Around a nearby corner, she happened upon the library entrance quicker than she had expected. Yellow lamplight flooded the room and spilled into the hallway where Y/N had skidded to a stop. Empty but for the myriad rows of shelves, the library beckoned to her, inviting her to curl up in a secluded corner with a good book and a hot cup of tea on that chilly fall night.

One foot crossed the threshold, then the other as a creeping sense of dread crawled up her spine. She paused six feet inside the library doors for a breath and scanned the room as best she could. Too many obstacles obscured the furthest corners of the room, including the table at which she had found Sam earlier that afternoon. And yet, she hesitated. What might be around those dimly lit corners, the edges of shadows through which she could hardly see?

“Oh, get it together, Y/N,” she chastised as she pressed on, willing herself to traverse the bookcases once more.

Around the last row of shelves, she found the table and approached it only to stall in the last foot. She had stood there mere hours ago, lips locked with Sam’s as he all but overpowered her with his hulking frame and palpable desire. She wanted nothing more than to relive that moment again and again until her imagination finished the job and she would, at the very least, have the perfect inspiration for a scene in her novel.

But before she moved any further, her curiosity about the pen burned a hole in thoughts. She inspected the shelving surrounding her spot until at last she found the entire case of writing supplies. Near the top the inkwell sat on its base, the twin pen beside it and surrounded by copious amounts of old parchment and quills.

“Perfect.”

As she approached the shelf, Y/N noted the base upon which the inkwell sat had a second, empty holder beside the twin pen. Made of the same material—she still couldn’t tell if it was wood or stone—she determined the set must belong together.

Eager to reunite them, Y/N grabbed the base at both ends and slid it towards her. A sharp shift jolted the base as it popped free of its decades long resting place surrounded by a thick layer of dust.

Delicate hands carried the inkwell and base to the table where she set them down near a chair and sat. The moment of truth loomed, settled in her stomach like a lead weight as she dragged her notebook from her bag. On its heels, she withdrew the pen and removed the cap, its sharp _clip_ loud as a crack of thunder in the silent library.

Her nerves had gotten the best of her, shaking hands struggling to fill the pen. Damn fragile piece of junk. The sad part, she knew, was that it probably wasn't worth it. The pen had most likely ceased to function properly decades ago.

The nib hovered over her notebook as she imagined how to begin her novel. As a solid drop of thick black ink gathered, Y/N had a second thought to take out her Hoodoo cloth and wrap it around the pen.

Just in case.

Metal met paper and dragged a thick, broad stroke as Y/N wrote in her neatest script.

_The Betrayal at The House on The Hill_

_The last thing Natalie wanted, let alone needed, after the untimely death of her parents was to inherit a piece of property. Least of all the cursed house on the top of the hill at the edge of town. But there she stood in the massive ballroom, surrounded by too many faces with too few names._

Each sentence flowed from Y/N without thought, without any effort at all. She continued, each idea forming and solidifying in a matter of seconds. The words found their way to the page with such perfection, Y/N tore the pen away intentionally to allow herself a moment to breathe.

As she inhaled, the chill she had felt upon entering the library returned. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and gooseflesh pebbled the skin of her arms as a numbing sense of dread chilled her toes and fingers. Her heart thumped faster and faster, hammering against her chest, until the rush of blood past her ears drowned out all her thoughts.

Lamps in the hallways flickered once, twice, then snuffed out. Darkness threatened the library as lamps along the walls followed, their brief flickers inevitably stilled. Y/N rose to her feet and reached into her bag, her fingers wrapping around a large container of salt as the last lights sputtered and died.

An unearthly cold gripped her like a vice and threatened to squeeze the life from her lungs. Ephemeral swirls of dust and dirt churned in a gathering mass not a foot before her, taking shape in the form of a hand around her throat. Y/N dropped the pen with a gasp, her scream silent as the grave, and though she clawed at the hands on her neck, she could not grasp them.

The dim light of the moon faded beneath heavy lids, her consciousness fleeing under the unholy strength of the malevolence rapidly forming before her. Before she succumbed to that darkness, the ghastly visage of a young woman—unmistakably Y/N Hillstead—stared back at her, sunken eyes wide and boring holes into her very soul.

Y/N gasped one last breath in desperation as she flung the can of salt at the spirit. Just like in her books, it scattered in a spray of dirt and dust, and Y/N collapsed to her knees as she gasped, choking for breath.

Her reprieve lasted a second before the spirit returned, but Y/N leaped faster and grabbed the pen as she rolled for the canister of salt. A handful flung in its face bought her the one second she needed to lunge for her bag and make the last move she had.

The chef’s torch ignited in one hand and she held the pen a scant inch shy of the flame. The spirit froze, expressionless but for her wide eyes glued to the pen.

“If you move one more inch, so help me God, I'll burn it,” Y/N growled. “You need leave. This is not the place for you.”

The spirit of Y/N Hillstead opened her mouth to speak but only a thin rasp emanated from her. Rage filled her eyes as her lips thinned to nothing, pressed closed as her jaw clenched.

And then everything happened all at once. A banshee wail of a scream rent the air as the spirit threw her head back and her jaw unhinged. Y/N clamped her hands over her ears as she collapsed to her knees and the pen fell to the floor, the most excruciating pain wracking her entire body. Regret plagued her final thoughts as consciousness faded once more, darkness creeping in at the edges of her vision.

But out of that deep, dark nothing, a familiar face brightened, illuminated by a flare of eerie green light. She searched the room for the source of the light and found it on the floor, shining blindingly bright out of the body of the pen. The impulse to grasp it, to encapsulate that power, assaulted Y/N with such relentless force, no amount of her willpower could have resisted. She lunged and clamped a hand over the pen, trapping it on the floor. As though she had covered its mouth, the spirit silenced in a wisp of dust, disappearing into thin air.

Warm, golden lamplight flickered to life and flooded the library in the absence of the spirit. That familiar face returned as Sam Winchester rushed to her side. His massive arms enveloped her with such ease, Y/N blushed despite the pain. She slumped into his embrace and allowed him to scoop her up into his arms, her hands shaking as they gripped at his coat.

He carried her from the library as she finally succumbed to the darkness, heavy lids drifting closed. But before she slipped into that unconsciousness, that infinitesimal space between asleep and awake, Y/N heard a gruff voice ask, “What the fuck just happened in there?”

Sam shifted her in his arms as he strode on, Dean catching up behind him. “I don’t know, man.”

“That wasn’t a lich, Sam! Or a spirit!” Dean hissed. “That was a full-on fucking poltergeist! Why is Y/N Hillstead a poltergeist?!”

A real, honest-to-god poltergeist. That final thought followed her down into the deep, dark nothing as she succumbed to unconsciousness at last.

_Son of a bitch_.


	5. The Haunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a poltergeist on the loose, Sam, Dean, and Y/N work together to investigate.

Watery eyes spilled over as she squeezed them against the pain that throbbed in her skull and dragged Y/N up from the nothingness in which she drifted. One eye cracked open and found pale moonlight glowed in angular lines across her bed where she lay on hear back. She could hardly remember how she had gotten there, or much of anything from the last two days. The hours blurred together the harder she thought, and the stress served little but to exacerbate her aching head.

And then she saw him. That familiar face, no longer bathed in eerie green light, hovered beside her, a nervous grind in his jaw twitching as he stared at his shoes.

When she sat up on her elbows, Sam startled and leaped from the bed. “Hey, you’re awake! Are you okay? How do you feel?”

He knelt beside her, one hand grasping hers and the other cupping her cheek. He pressed her fingers to his lips where he placed kisses on each one until she spoke.

“I’m okay,” she managed. The softness of his lips washed away her worry, and the endless empathy in his eyes soothed her pain. “What happened?”

“You were attacked,” he started, then paused as a look of consternation pinched his face. “How much do you remember from earlier today?”

Attacked? She swallowed a thick gulp, her tongue sticking to her mouth and throat dry. “I… got to the mansion,” she choked. Sam handed her a glass of water on the bedside table, and from it she drew a long swallow. “I had dinner with the guests. You… walked me back to my room.” Y/N hesitated, a familiar sting prickling her cheeks.

He smiled a shy grin as he glanced to the bed. “What else?” he asked as he returned to her, his hand atop her hand and gently stroking her hair. “What else do you remember?”

A flood of memories returned all at once, replaying rapidly. “Spirits. You hunt spirits. You told me. In the library,” Y/N stated.

“Okay, that’s good,” Sam said as he breathed in deep. “Earlier tonight, after we left your room, we found you in the library. A uh… poltergeist had you about dead to rights.”

The tears came then, unbidden and uncontrollable. Fucking hell, a poltergeist.

“Y/N, it’s okay, you’re fine,” Sam soothed.

She wiped the tears from her eyes as her anger subsided. “Did you save me?”

Sam shook his head. “No. We’re not sure what happened,” he explained. “We got to the back of the library just in time to see the poltergeist take off.”

At least she still had some sense of dignity left. The last thing she needed was to be the idiot damsel in her own fucked up haunting. But, dammit, why? Why had she rushed off to the library like some god damn hero ready to take on the world the second she had learned she truly knew half a thing about the paranormal? Her impulsive streak had gotten the better of her again, and once she got a hold of a couple clues, she thought she could solve the puzzle on her own. And with her writer’s block taken care of by that pen…

The pen.

She sat up in a rush and Sam squawked his protests as he grasped her shoulders. “Y/N, it’s okay, I’m here,” he said as he attempted to calm her, but Y/N had a mission. “What’s… what are you doing?”

Her pockets came up empty, but her bag sat on the writing table at the foot of her bed. “Where’s the pen?” she asked as she scrambled from Sam’s hands.

Sam let her go as another scoff of indignation burst from his lips. “What pen?”

“The pen!” she pointed at the writing desk. “The one Dean found earlier,” she continued as she dove into her bag and scraped the bottom. “Where is it?!”

The helpless look on Sam’s face broke her heart. “I… didn’t see it. You had it?”

“Yes!” Y/N shouted as she upended her bag. From its depths the pen fell, along with her hand-torch, and clattered to the floor. “Oh, thank god.”

“What does the pen—”

“This,” she interrupted as she brandished the pen, “has been holding Y/N Hillstead’s spirit for one-hundred fifty years.”

Sam withdrew his purple cloth from his back pocket and took the pen from her. “That explains… so much.”

Y/N slumped back onto the bed. “Yeah, and I let her out.”

“But now we know what happened,” Sam said in a rush of air. He knelt before her, edging his way between her knees. “How did you do it? What opened the trap?”

God, but he was so close. How did he expect her to focus with his ridiculously pretty face inches away from hers? “It—it’s an old fountain pen, right?” She paused as she waited for Sam to put it together but when he raised a curious brow at her, she continued. “It needs ink. It was bone dry when Dean tried it.”

He looked at the pen again, then back to her. “That’s fucking brilliant,” he breathed. “God, I don’t think I’d have thought of that, Y/N, that’s—”

Impulsive streak be damned, Y/N wanted him all to herself. Her lips landed on his, and her hands found his hair, delving deep to grasp at the back of his head as she kissed him. Sam responded without hesitation, his arms wrapping around her and holding her tightly to his chest. Constricted so, she could hardly move, but what a glorious sensation. To be so profoundly consumed by another, in body and mind, she thanked whatever gods existed for such luck. And how lucky she was to find that sort of connection in Sam, brilliant and kind and sweet and hotter than the surface of the sun.

The smooth taste of alcohol on his tongue—a particular hoppy beer—filled her mouth as he teased her lips apart. Not that he had to try very hard. She opened up to him like a summer flower on a bright morning, mouth and legs and arms all wide for him to press into with his enormous shoulders and narrow hips and—

Oh.

Pressed firmly to her core, Sam’s hips rolled, grinding his erection along her sex. Though Y/N moaned, their lips never parted, long kisses and eager tongues devouring one another as Sam laid her on the bed and settled atop her.

Against his lips, she sighed his name, repeated pleas for more of him, his hands, his lips, his everything. And Sam acquiesced with equal fervor, eager as she.

The door to her room exploded as Dean damn near tore it off the hinges and burst through it. “Sam, we’ve got—oh, son of a bitch!”

Sam froze as his head whipped to the door, hair askew and mouth agape. Dean shielded his eyes as he stuttered his apologies and pulled the door halfway closed. When Y/N prodded Sam in the chest, he scrambled off her and sat on the end of the bed. She righted her shirt as Dean peeked through the door and laughed when he spotted Sam.

“Sam,” Y/N whispered as she pointed to her hair then his, “your… it’s…”

He ran his fingers through the long brown locks and brushed them straight, tucked behind his ears. The crimson blush on his cheeks depended to his neck, and Y/N couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him. Her own frustrated arousal ached between her thighs, and Sam's palpable want compounded the problem. Twice, they had found themselves alone, and twice, Dean had interrupted them.

Sam interrupted her thoughts when he stood and approached Dean. “What happened?”

Dean's face contorted as he asked, “You didn't hear that scream?”

Scream? “No,” Y/N stated as Sam regarded her and shook his head. “We didn't hear anything.”

Dean’s expressions cycled through emotions faster than a rollercoaster. “Damn.” He scratched the back of his head, then said, “Well, about fifteen minutes ago there was a scream loud enough to wake the dead. I went to the kitchen to figure out what happened. When you two didn’t show up, I came here.”

She hadn’t heard a thing but Sam’s breath and insistent moans. Christ, was that how bad she had it for him? Y/N shook her head to clear her thoughts and asked, “What happened?”

Dean motioned them into the hallways as he talked over his shoulder. “I think the poltergeist has attacked two people, possibly killed one,” he said. “We need to get these people out of here.”

Easier said than done. But Y/N followed Dean nonetheless, and Sam fell in step behind her. When Dean turned over his shoulder once more, he lowered his voice.

“So,” he started, “you and Sammy, huh?”

“I… uh,” she stuttered as she looked over her shoulder to find Sam's flat glare.

“Please, don't, dude,” he groaned. “Focus on the case.”

“Oh, I am focused on the case. It's you who isn't,” Dean retorted, but then turned his knowing smirk to Y/N. “Although, I can't blame you. I enjoy a naughty librarian every once in a while, too.”

Y/N cocked an eyebrow at him. “First off, I’m an author, and second, Dean, you wouldn’t last five minutes in a bed with me.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know what I can do in five minutes,” he said with a wink.

Y/N had another retort readied, poised on the tip of her tongue when Sam set a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Please, let him get the last word in. I’m mortified enough as it is.”

Down the grand staircase, Y/N slowed to allow some distance between Dean and the two of them. “Does dirty talk bother you, Sam?”

A vehement shake of his head loosened his hair from behind his ears. “Quite the opposite,” he muttered as he glanced to his feet.

Before her eyes made it that far, Y/N saw the stiff ridge of his erection straining against his pants. “Can I promise to take care of you later? How long has it been?”

He urged Y/N to keep up with Dean as he breathed his reply. “Months. I… relieve myself every other day, but it’s not enough. Nothing I’ve got back at the Bunker compares to a real person.”

Bunker? She logged that question away on her growing list in the back of her mind and instead asked, “Person?”

Sam turned a shade of crimson she wasn’t sure existed before then. “My partners aren’t exclusively women,” he stated.

“Are some of them men?”

He nodded.

“Are some of them silicone and shaped like a flashlight?”

He nodded again.

“Are some of them silicone and phallus shaped?”

He nodded a third time as they stopped outside the kitchen.

When she opened her mouth to ask another question, Dean interrupted her. “Alright, I officially know too much,” he paused. “The body is here, behind the island. No sign of a struggle. Groundskeeper found her on the floor after he heard her scream.”

“You get a read on him?” Sam asked as he strode past them both.

“Nope,” Dean stated as he followed. Y/N brought up the rear as she listened. “He looked like he went ten rounds with Mohammed Ali.” He paused, then added, “If Mohammad Ali had claws.”

In the kitchen, Sam stood at the feet of the body, then knelt as he shuffled to her shoulders. “There’s something here. In her ears.”

“Ectoplasm?”

If the night had not been weird enough by then, the look Sam and Dean both shot Y/N had officially shoved it violently into something out of the Twilight Zone. She might as well have sprouted a second head and spoken to it. “What?”

Sam grabbed a cloth from the counter and wiped the cook's ear. He stepped over the body and handed the rag to Dean. “Ectoplasm.”

“How do you know all this stuff?” Sam asked.

She grabbed the rag from Dean and examined it. “I thought it would be green. Not black.”

“Okay, look, this isn’t that kind of poltergeist,” Dean started, “and this isn’t the Gho—”

A bone chilling scream rent the air and interrupted Dean. Y/N dropped the rag and bolted for the door, Sam and Dean hot on her heels. In the entry, the scream repeated, and she took the stairs two at a time as she headed for the western wing of the mansion.

In the furthest hallway, lights flickered and an icy chill slammed deep into her chest, sucking the air from her lungs. But she pressed on, charging headlong to the furthest room at the darkest end of the hallway to come upon the traveling woman and the distorted ghost of Y/N Hillstead, hideously transformed into a terrifying poltergeist. She had both of her hands wrapped around the poor woman’s throat and held three feet in the air, her legs kicking furiously as she struggled.

Sam and Dean skidded to a halt in front of her, arms spread to protect. But Y/N had a plan and she wasn’t about to abandon it to chivalry. She shoved past them as she brandished the pen and shouted, “Hey, Hillstead!”

Sam wrapped an arm around her waist and tried to pull her back, but he was too late. The poltergeist turned as she dropped the woman and rushed Y/N, but she had come prepared. The small hand-torch ignited with a sharp click, hissing bright blue flame to an orange point a scant inch shy of the pen. “I'll fucking do it! Leave! Last chance, asshole!”

The same scream they had heard earlier sounded again, emanating from Y/N Hillstead's unhinged mouth. In a swirl of dust and dirt, she vanished into thin air, taking with her the unearthly chill. The lamps flared to life as Sam rushed into the room and attended to the woman who stirred on the floor, thankfully alive.

“Do I want to even ask how you knew that would work?” Dean gasped.

Shit. Y/N shrugged for time as she came up with something. “I ah… I had a hunch.”

“Hunches are good,” Dean agreed as he clasped her shoulder and turned her to face him with flush cheeks. “But for the love of…” he paused, consternation contorting his face. “For the love of Cas, lie to Sam when he asks you the same question. Make something up, I don't care what, but do not tell him you ran in with a half-cocked plan. I do that enough for three people…”

He parted from her and headed back down the hallway as she called after him. “Where are you going?”

“To find a way to put a poltergeist back in its trap!”


	6. The Cleansing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ritual and a few spells. Sap, cap, trap. What could possibly go wrong?

“She seemed genuinely terrified you would destroy the pen,” Sam noted as he flipped through a book.

Across the table Dean glared at her as Y/N opened her mouth to speak. “Yeah, about that,” she started, then cleared her throat. “I knew it would work. I did the same thing when I released her. That's why she didn't kill me. But I thought I had actually gotten her to move on to… heaven? Hell? Whatever afterlife that may or may not—”

“Heaven, probably,” Dean said, his glare softened. “You don't go to hell unless a demon collects you for some reason. Or you choose it.”

Y/N blinked at him for several seconds, then opened her mouth multiple times, each with the start of a different question, only to move on. “I'm going to… log that away as if you didn’t just tell me heaven and hell are real and ask my fifty-seven million questions after we’ve taken care of this poltergeist.”

Dean sipped from his drink as he nodded in wordless agreement.

Y/N returned to her book and stared at the page, unable to focus. Too many competing thoughts vied for her attention, and when she tried to give one that very thing, another weaseled its way in to distract her. At least after all this, she would have one hell of a book on her hands.

Sam prodded her arm then and pushed a book to her as he dragged his chair closer. “I think I might have something.”

Though Y/N heard him and understood him, her mind wandered as his presence overwhelmed her. So near, Sam smothered her, and not unpleasantly. Far from it, Y/N wanted little else then, aside from maybe her book to write itself. But since that would never happen, she settled for imagining Sam Winchester in all manner of ways.

“Y/N?”

She blinked. “What?”

“I asked you if the trap made sense,” he said. “It’s… not going to be easy.”

Sam pointed at the open book where Y/N found Latin mixed in with English. As she scanned the page, the plan clarified. “A ritual and two spells. Gives all three of us something to do, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed as he smiled. “It does. Do you need help with—”

“Non opus auxilium cum latine.”

Sam’s smile brightened as he laughed. “You speak Latin. Of course you do.”

Her chest tightened at the brilliant flash of excitement in his eyes. “I do,” she said as she smiled and averted her gaze. Looking at Sam was like staring too long at the sun, but oh how she wished she could stare for days.

“Huh,” he breathed as he leaned ever so slightly closer. “Of all the civilians to get involved in a hunt—”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean groaned. “Just give me my spell so I can go memorize it on my own.” He brandished his open hand as he leaned across the table.

Sam tore a page from her notebook and jotted down the spell. “We need some components for the ritual, too. Can you grab this stuff from the car?” he asked as he handed Dean the paper. “The bowl, too?”

Dean shot Sam a flat glare before looking over the paper, glanced at Y/N, then back at the paper. “Alright. We’ll meet up in the ballroom in an hour. Unless someone shows up again.”

Sam flashed a quick smile as he said, “Thanks.”

Dean disappeared around the corner of bookshelves, the thump of his heavy boots fading into the distance until silent. Y/N stared at the chair he vacated, too many thoughts warring in her mind. But the comforting warmth of Sam’s long fingers and massive palm enveloped her shoulder, and she startled as she turned to face him.

He, too, jumped as he reared back and withdrew his touch. “Sorry. I shouldn’t do that—”

She silenced him with a touch, cupping his cheek. “Sam, please don’t second guess yourself.”

His eyes closed as he nuzzled her hand, turning into her palm. A deep breath expanded his broad chest, and his lips pressed to her palm where he kissed her. But then he grasped her hand in both of his and held it to his chest, and his eyes opened as he said, “I'm scared. This… you, helping us, isn't exactly how we do things. And even when a civilian gets involved, it…”

His words faded as he stared into her eyes, that familiar, profound look of simultaneous longing and pain. “It never felt like this?”

“It’s been a while,” he said. “Let’s just put it that way for now. After this, after we zap this poltergeist back into its trap, we’ll talk. I promise. Is that okay with you?”

Not a hint of a lie hid in his eyes no matter how hard Y/N searched. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe everything he had said. But she knew how the story ended. Sure, they might lock the poltergeist away. Except the cost might be greater than they understood. Or worse, Sam understood that cost intimately, and because of that, had chosen to put off talking with her.

Y/N lurched from her chair into his arms, hers wrapped around his neck, and her lips planted on his. And God bless Sam’s embrace, for in it, she had never felt safer. At least she knew he would be there for her, do his best to protect her. There she found a modicum of solace, that whatever happened next, they would face it together.

When they parted, Sam breathed through his smile as she touched her forehead to his. “You know, if Dean came back right now, that’d make a hat trick.”

“Wow. A hockey joke. In Minnesota. Don’t quit your day job,” Y/N teased.

He turned to the table with a frustrated sigh. “Speaking of day jobs,” he said, “we should get to memorizing this stuff. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer the ritual.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him as Y/N returned to her chair. “You don’t think I can handle it?”

“As capable as I think you are, the ritual is… the most vulnerable part of this process,” Sam explained as he pointed to the text. “You’d be exposed to her at her strongest.”

“And I won’t be when we’re trapping her?” she asked.

“Correct,” Sam continued. “The ritual is going to sap her of her paranormal energy. Dean’s spell will bind her to the pen. And your spell,” he paused as he pointed to her page, “will actually trap her in it. Sap, cap, trap.”

Her gaze drifted to the pen where it sat in its holder beside its twin on the base of the inkwell in the center of the library table. “We’ll have to do something about it then. Hide it? I’m guessing it can’t be destroyed if it’s holding a poltergeist.”

“Correct again,” Sam laughed. “We can think of what to do with it later, though. For now,” he took a deep breath and pushed the book towards her, “we’ve got some memorization to do.”

“Great.”

If she made it through the night, Y/N vowed to hear Sam’s laughter every day for the rest of her life.

* * *

“Did you two actually memorize your spells or just make out the whole time?”

“Aw, poor Dean, hasn’t been laid in weeks,” Y/N teased.

He stared at her with a flat, thin-lipped glare until he rolled his eyes and handed her the bowl full of ritual components. “Yeah, fine, I’m jealous. Go give this to that damn gorilla over there and tell him I said not to fuck it up.”

She crossed the large ballroom to give the bowl to Sam as she asked, “Why are we in here anyway? Why not the library?”

Over her shoulder, she watched as Dean approached a table, fingertips teasing the tablecloth and eyes dancing across the banquet settings. “Because,” he started, “there’s more space. Library’s too cramped.”

Sam stood as she approached with the bowl and took it from her. “He’s got a point.”

A rapid rush of fabric spun them both about to find Dean with an entire tablecloth in his hands, his eyes wide and his mouth wider. “Holy shit, I did it.” He pointed at the table where, sans tablecloth, stood place settings for six and a wide centerpiece full of fall flowers, all shifted two inches towards him.

“He… I am so sorry. He watches too many movies,” Sam muttered as he shook his head.

“At least the flowers are still standing,” Y/N said with a wink.

The bowl dropped to the table with a dull thud as Sam groaned. “Great, now there’s two of you.” 

Though she laughed, the moment of levity faded in a wisp of smoke as she watched Sam work. A ritual. Real magic again. And a spell. She was going to cast a spell, something that, eighteen hours ago, she had known to be fictional. All that had come crumbling down around her, and since that moment, when Sam had told her the truth in the library, Y/N had oscillated between elation, fear, and sadness. Innocence lost, her books no longer represented an escape from reality. 

Life had proven to be stranger than fiction.

“Ready?” 

His baritone pacified her conflicted thoughts, settling them to a dull roar in the back of her mind. She turned into his touch at her shoulder and hugged him as hard as she could. 

“You're gonna be fine, Y/N,” he said as he smoothed her hair. “I promise.” 

When she looked up into his eyes, she found the same fear that gripped her chest. “You shouldn't make promises you can't keep.” 

“I don't.” 

Serious as a heart attack, Sam’s dark stare lingered on her a moment longer before he parted from her. Back at his table, he stood before the bowl, final components in hand. 

Y/N took up her position two tables away, hidden behind a large pillar. Across from her, Dean stood behind a similar pillar, and gave her a thumbs up. Between the two of them, she knew she should be reassured. But the nagging worry that everything would go terribly wrong never loosened its vice-like grip of her racing heart. And as Sam’s commanding voice filled the cavernous ballroom, Y/N hoped—prayed, even—that he and Dean would prove her wrong. 

_ Spiritus, dico vobis, et ita erit tibi reaponsum. Spiritus, ego dicam, et sic tibi manifestatur. Spiritus, ego præcipio tibi, et ita, so obedieritis. _

He tossed a component into the bowl, followed by an ignited matchbook. A slow kindling crackled to life as a subtle simmer caught the twigs and powders. At first, she thought the ritual had failed. She saw no sign of the poltergeist. Or any spirit for that matter. But when Sam repeated the mantra, the fire in the bowl flared three feet in a gout of violent green flame. Sam recoiled as he shielded his face with his arms, but he maintained his cadence, repeating the ritual’s words as the fire settled, then turned a beautiful shade of blue. 

A sharp gust of wind whipped through the room bearing the same chill she had felt twice that night, and it seeped into her bones once more. Her breath clouded and condensed before her open mouth, and her eyes widened in shock, not only at the freezing air but at the sight of Sam bathed in blue light from the flames of the ritual bowl. He towered over the table, spine straight and shoulders held back as he commanded the paranormal powers of the afterlife to bend to his will.

And bend they did. Dust and dirt gathered in a swirling cloud in the center of the room. Strikes of lightning darted across the windows and illuminated the ballroom in staccato flashes. Sam repeated his ritual as he leaned into the howling wind and the form amassing in the center of the solidified into the spirit of Y/N Hillstead once more.

An ear-piercing shriek shattered the glass of the windows in a wall of sound as the poltergeist threw back her head in wild rage. Pain lanced like fire through her entire body as Y/N collapsed to her knees, hands clamped over her ears but to no avail. Endless seconds stretched as darkness encroached, and Y/N willingly submitted to that painless nothing, so ready for it all to end in so few seconds.

The screams stopped with a sputtered choke, and as the wind settled, her vision cleared. Chill and pain all subsided in a wave of warmth as Dean's deep growl recited his spell. She peeked around the pillar to find Sam brandishing an iron poker in one hand and a can of salt in the other as the poltergeist struggled against invisible bonds. Sam’s ritual had worked, sapping the spirit of her power and priming it for Dean’s binding spell. And Dean, his booming voice filling the ballroom, commanded his spell as though second nature.

_ Spiritus, ego catenam, et sic te manere. Spiritus, ego dica te, et sic manebitis. Spiritus, adiuro vos, et ita vos peregrinamini. _

He held the pen out before him as the veins of green glowed in angular shafts of eerie light cast across his face. The poltergeist wheeled about and rushed him in that last second before Dean whipped the pen across the room to Y/N where she leaped out from behind the pillar and caught it.

As the poltergeist towered over Dean with a clawed hand raised, he shouted, “Get her!”

Sam threw his can of salt at the poltergeist only for it to pass straight through her head. Dean caught it and flung an arc of salt at her, but Y/N Hillstead continued her pursuit, bearing down on Dean like a wolf on its prey.

“Y/N! Do it!”

Sam’s shout shocked her into action, one confident step after the other bearing her towards the poltergeist. She gathered all her willpower, breathed in a breath so full, and spoke.

_ Spiritus, ego confinium te, et sic te erit perseverare. Spiritus, ego cohibere te, et sic te erit ferre. Spiritus, ego imprison te, et sic te patietur. In aeternum. _

The pen flashed so bright Y/N shielded her eyes as her last step faltered. The pen warmed in her fist brandished before her, gold and green lights glimmering from it and dancing on the floor and ceiling as a strained hiss sought release. The poltergeist wheeled about as that hiss rose to a howling of wind, drawing her towards Y/N when she opened her hand. She wanted nothing more than to run in that moment as the poltergeist started for her, drifting agonizingly slow, each second longer than the last.

“Say it again! Keep saying it!”

Dean’s bellow barely sounded above the wind, but Y/N heard him. And so, she repeated herself, poured her entire soul into that spell, believed beyond everything she had ever thought possible. It had to work. Sam wouldn’t let anything go wrong if he was there. He had found the spell and said it would work.

Cold crept up her arms, her spine, and settled in the pit of her stomach as the lights flickered, dimmed, then snuffed out like so many little lives. The icy fingers of death closed on her throat as Y/N Hillstead reached her and squeezed, lifting Y/N three feet off the floor, and screamed an unholy wail that wracked her entire body with pain the likes of which she had never felt before.

The last of the gold and green light in the pen sputtered and died, and as the darkness returned, Y/N witnessed the last thing she would ever see. Dean tried first, ambushing from behind, but a casual flick of the poltergeist’s wrist sent him flying across the ballroom and through a table where he stilled amongst the rubble. Sam followed, hot on his heels with the iron poker, only to be thrown aside much the same, a ragdoll discarded and forgotten in a crumpled pile beneath a shattered table where the ritual bowl had once stood.

All for naught, their magic had failed. And all three of them would die because of it. Because of her. Because she let loose a century-and-a-half old vengeful spirit in an impulsive bid for inspiration. What was worse was that Sam and Dean’s last memories would be of her, the woman that had gotten them into the mess that ended in their deaths. And she had no one to blame but herself.

But only if she let it happen that way.

Y/N dug deep for the last of her strength and reached for her back pocket. Numb fingers fumbled at the handle as she cursed in her delirious state. The poltergeist turned her attention back to Y/N in that single second, and as their eyes locked, time stood still. For that infinitesimal blip in her life, death seemed inevitable.

The click of the torch drew both of their eyes down to her hand where Y/N had shoved the pen into the hand-torch’s bright blue flame. The poltergeist dropped her to her feet as her strength wavered, bits of dust flaking from her outstretched hand. Shriveled fingers reached for her face, clawed at her flaking flesh as her jaw opened, but no scream sounded. Her hands faded, followed by her arms, and then her body. As the pen charred and burned, her clothes drifted to pieces, and bit by bit, her face disintegrated. In so few seconds, it was over. The remains of Y/N Hillstead sat in a pile of ash at Y/N’s feet, a threat no longer.

A groan and clattering of rubble snatched her attention as Sam roused from his ruined table. His eyes swept the ballroom until he found Dean stirring from his own pile of dinnerware and wood. He rushed to him, tossing pieces of the table aside until he reached Dean, then, when he was sure he was okay, hugged him so hard, Dean gasped.

On his feet, Dean, too, scanned the ballroom only to settle on Y/N, the pile of ash at her feet and clutching her hand-torch.

“Son of a bitch.”

Sam looked between Y/N and Dean. “What?”

“C’mon, you friggin’ ape,” Dean started. “We’re going to the kitchen.”

“Wha-why?!” Sam protested. “I want to know what the fuck just happened!”

“Y/N can tell you,” he said.

Sam checked over his shoulder as she followed them from the ballroom. Sheepish, she smiled as she averted her eyes.

“Why are we going to the kitchen?”

“Because I owe Y/N a drink.”

“For what?”

Dean shot her a smile over his shoulder.

“For saving our asses.” 


	7. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning.

The crisp fall breeze cooled her cheeks as Y/N slipped through the front door of Hill Manor, eager to be on her way. With the sun barely above the trees, she had decided to leave then rather than face Sam. She couldn’t bare the thought of disappointing him. She had seen that look on his face before and had vowed to never see it again. Better to remember him smiling in the bar the night before.

_ “We can keep my involvement out of the story when we talk to the cops, right?” _

_ Dean laughed as he said, “Sure, Y/N. We’ll keep it short.” _

_ “Thanks, Dean.” _

_ “No, sweetheart,” he interjected. “Thank you. Right, Sam?” _

_ Sam hefted his glass in salute. “Thank you.” _

A shiver ran up her spine at the memory of Sam’s gaze consuming her over the rim of his glass as they drank to her success. Damn him. The point of her trip was not to find a lover. Inspiration for a book. That was it. And she had that in spades. No need to hang about.

Her suitcase thumped on the brick path at the bottom of the steps, and she paused, heart and mind in conflict. A deep breath filled her lungs as she turned around to soak in the essence of the mansion one last time. But instead of the house, she only saw Sam Winchester standing in the arch of the covered porch, staring at her.

“We never got a chance to talk,” he said as he started down the steps.

By no fault of hers. Between guests and police, Sam and Dean had been busy the rest of the night. True to Dean’s word, they had kept her involvement out of the story. And when the police had interviewed her, she claimed to have slept through it all, exhausted from a long day of writing. The officer had recognized her then, and in a complete dereliction of duty, asked for her autograph. Y/N had gladly given it, but then returned to her room for some much-needed sleep.

Except sleeping had only allowed her to process her thoughts, her feelings. Doubt replaced anything she thought she had felt for Sam. And given the near-death experience, she figured it best to leave as early as possible.

Too bad for her, it seemed Sam awoke with the sun as well.

“I’m leaving,” she stated.

“I see that,” Sam said as he looked to her suitcase and started down the stairs. “I made a promise.”

“Yeah, and you didn't keep it,” she retorted. “I had to save everyone.”

She hadn’t meant to sound so angry, so spiteful. Crestfallen, Sam stopped at the bottom of the steps beside her and held out his hand. “I know. I'm sorry.”

No excuses. No reasons. No spin. A genuine apology. She placed her hand in his. “While I appreciate the apology, you shouldn’t need to.”

“You shouldn't have been there,” he said as he pulled her close.

“You would be dead,” she replied.

“True,” Sam agreed. “So, even though we all nearly died, I'm glad you were with us. We made a good team. You did great. I don't know if I'd have thought to destroy the pen.”

Heat crept up her neck and her cheeks stung as she reached for her back pocket. From it she withdrew the black pen, its gold and green veins glimmering in the fall sun.

Sam's eyes damn near popped out of his head. “What did you do, Y/N!?!”

She withdrew the cap and scribbled on her palm. “It's just a pen, now.”

“But what about the one you torched?” he asked. “How did that kill the poltergeist?”

She replaced the cap and jammed the pen back into her pocket. “I took the twin from the inkwell base with me to the ballroom after reading up on liches and poltergeists.”

She wished she could confuse Sam more often just so she could see his furrowed brow and pursed lips. Y/N could hear the gears churning in his head as he said, “Keep talking.”

“Hillstead thought she was a lich. She thought her spell to splice half of her soul into the pen had worked,” she explained. “That’s why she took off every time I threatened to destroy it. But when we tried to trap her back in it,” she paused as she relived moment, “she remembered what living in that pen was like. Drove her mad, all those years alone inside a tiny, dark space. But she had no idea she had become a poltergeist. She had no idea she had killed herself trying to create a phylactery.”

Sam’s face softened as understanding blossomed in his eyes. “She thought you destroyed the other half of her soul,” he said. “And so, when you destroyed the twin, she…”

“Moved on,” Y/N said. “I think. She believed her 'phylactery' had been destroyed, so she believed she was 'dead’ and moved on. Into the light. I hope. Poor girl suffered for a century and a half, alone. In a pen.”

For too long, Sam stared at her and searched her gaze with is own wide eyes. Under such scrutiny, she shivered, but she dared not look away.

“You’re brilliant,” he said under his breath as he pulled her closer. “The way you think… I'm gonna miss the hell out of you.”

Dammit. He would make it difficult. With his hair, and puppy dog eyes, and tender touches, Y/N knew she would regret waking away. But did she want that life? Wedge herself into his and document everything he and his brother did?

“I'll miss you too, Sam,” she sighed. “Next time I stay in a haunted mansion… well, I think I’ll take care of things just fine.”

The red in his eyes stung her own as Y/N turned on her heel and walked away. It was the right thing to do, the best thing. She wasn't a hunter. She was a writer. She'd almost died on her one and only hunt. There was no way she would survive that lifestyle.

At her car, she tossed her suitcase into the trunk, and slammed the lid shut like a finished book. A sort of finality settled in her gut, not quite satisfied with her decision, but accepting it, nonetheless. And though she would miss him, Y/N knew Sam would get over her in a few days. Besides, she had all the material for her book, and that had been her goal for the trip. Not upending her entire life to live with some—

“Y/N!”

She froze in the door of her car, one foot in and the other on the ground. Against her every instinct, Y/N turned over her shoulder and saw Sam running down the path to the drive. He plodded to a halt before her, and as she stepped from the car, he grasped her by the shoulders and hauled her into him.

When his lips landed on hers, her heart leaped into her throat. Their prior trysts compared so little to that connection, to his insistent hands at the small of her back, holding her so tight, and his desperate tongue plying hers. And dear Lord, what strength. Power rippled beneath his coat, restrained despite his palpable need. All of him inundated her senses, his spearmint toothpaste, musty books, three-day scruff, and the quietest of sighs all tearing down her walls, and Y/N melted into him.

Between breaths and fervent kisses Sam clamored for more, gripping and pulling and tugging as though he could never have her close enough. “I don't want you to leave,” he mumbled against her lips.

She pulled back from him and held him at arm’s length as she looked him directly in the eye. “I don’t want to go either. But I can’t be a hunter. I’m not a hunter.”

He pointed at the house. “That, last night? That’s what being a hunter is all about,” he stated. “Pulling a win out of your ass when a thing has you dead to rights. It’s the Winchester way. We don’t know anything else.”

She wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to the questions spiraling through her head, so instead of asking how they had survived all their years, she, once again, logged that away on her ever-growing list. “I still think I got lucky.”

“You did,” Sam agreed. “I’d rather be lucky than dead. Besides, you don’t have to hunt. You could… travel with us?”

Inspiration. “I could use your hunts as material for my books?”

Disgust contorted Sam’s pretty face. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Do not put us in your books.”

His tone had turned so gravely serious in a single second, Y/N knew there had to be a story behind that demand. Her brow knotted as she cocked her head to the side. “Alright,” she said. “But this is… terrifying. I’m uprooting my entire life for you.”

“I know,” he said as he hugged her again, and Y/N, powerless in his presence, submitted to his embrace. “I know this is sudden. I'm not one to rush into things. But I would regret it for the rest of my life if we didn't at least try.”

Regret.

Y/N pulled back once more. “Rather to have loved and lost?”

His smile shined brighter than the sun. “Than never to have loved at all.”

She pushed to the tips of her boots and pressed a kiss to his lips so quick, Sam only just caught her. “If we keep,” he paused to kiss her again. “… doing this…” another kiss, “… I’m going to throw you…” a gasp, “… in the backseat of your car,” a moan, “and tear those leggings to shreds.”

“Oh, so the gentleman _is _a deviant after all!” she said with a laugh against his lips. “And here I thought the butt plugs were just a joke to creep your brother out,” she teased, but her banter faltered when Sam grasped her by the ass and hauled her into his arms.

“Honey, you don’t know the half of it,” he growled. “But if you come with me, I’d be more than happy to show you.”

His smile against her lips warmed her like the rays of the perfect fall sun breaking through the clouds.

“Take me home, Sam.”


End file.
